Mooning through my cold
town's streets, solitude blades my
bruised heart. It begins
to rain and thunder. Like brass
cymbals banging in
the sky, my apathy stones
my care. Bones in my
gray steel closet are a fog
which wounds my life and
soul. A rotting tree falls once.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem